Bruce and I decided to spend the day in Vancouver, Canada.

We collected our maps and info of interesting things to see and do in the big Canadian city, and reminded each other to pack our passports.

Bruce’s was in his desk. I’d stashed mine in my sock drawer. Only, the passport wasn’t in my sock drawer. In fact, the passport wasn’t in any of my drawers.

Or bathroom cabinets and drawers. Or my nightstand. Or the closet. Or my box of out-of-season clothes, my box of handbags, my container of scarves.

Bruce got in on the search. “Did you leave it in the glove compartment in the car?”

“No.”

“Did you store it in one of your purses?”

“No.”

Your luggage?”

“Argh, no! I remember putting it in my sock drawer.” I wasn’t yelling, but my voice was tinged with aggravation and desperation. I had really looked forward to our Canadian outing and my missing passport felt like a nasty jab from fate.

I went to my office to look through my bookshelves.

Then  a niggling, nasty thought occurred to me. Bruce was an extremely organized guy. So organized that he had a habit of organizing my stuff into slots and shelves, boxes or bins that defied my own sense of reasonable places to store something.

It had gotten so bad lately, with this move from Colorado to Washington state that I had to warn,”Bruce, I know you want to put this (insert whatever item) away, but please don’t. I need it to be on the kitchen counter right now.”

Surely, with Bruce’s penchant for organizing, he had organized my passport into oblivion.

Exasperation grew in my chest. I just knew Bruce had taken my passport and “organized” it.

“What does it look like?” He asked, his voice was coming from the bedroom.

That made me want to growl. “It looks just like your passport.”

I returned to my bookshelf rummaging, all the while angrily imagining my husband putting my passport into a box, labeled “miscellaneous,” and shelving it in the highest, farthest-back shelf in the garage, where it would take a giant muscle man to get to it.

I’ll bet he did it again! I thought while my stomach clenched.

“Found it.” Bruce called.

What?!! “Where was it?”

“The bottom of your sock drawer.”

I ran into the bedroom and threw my arms around my husband. “You’re wonderful!”

But, in my mind I had to confess my nasty suspicions about my husband to the Lord, and ask Him to build in me a less jumping-to-conclusions heart.

Later, when I thought about how I’d checked my sock drawer three times before giving up, I wondered if God made me not see my passport—knowing I’d probably blame someone else—so He could work on my suspicious heart.

How else would I learn?

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace.” (Col. 3:15 NIV Bible)